“While I leave the codebook a safe distance away.” Drake’s lips had gone thin and tight. He motioned to Hall. “I told him about that part, too, of course.”
“And I agree that our so-dubbed Emergency Code is the perfect answer. Compromising it is no great thing at all.”
Margo had expected nothing else. She stood and moved to look over Drake’s shoulder. “What’s the target?”
He tapped a finger to the map. “It’s the Woolwich munitions factory.”
Her muscles went still, frozen for a moment. Even if only a few planes made it, even if only a few bombs fell, that would be catastrophic. It wouldn’t take much to turn the factory itself into a bomb, killing not only Dot but innocents by the hundreds. Perhaps the thousands. “No.”
Drake pushed away from the table. “It isn’t enough to just go in and get Dot out. We have to stop them. Not just him, but them. How do we do that?”
Culbreth and de Grey had both given up their own work and had gathered round the map. Culbreth tapped something near the mouth of the Thames. “We alert the RFC and RNAS, for starters. There’s no great risk to our operations in telling them—the Germans won’t know they’ve tipped us off, they’ll just assume we had a scout in the air who spotted them. Then we can get our own lads up in the air to take out as many as they can and get the antiaircraft guns ready.” He lifted his brows in Hall’s direction.
DID nodded. “Do it.”
Culbreth spun for the door.
De Grey turned that way too. “And we can have them sound the sirens in that part of London. The residents ought to have ample time to get to the underground shelters and out of the city.”
Hall was still nodding. These were safe actions, precautionary ones. Actions that, as Culbreth had pointed out, wouldn’t alert the German High Command to the fact that they’d broken their codes and thereby inspire them to change them entirely. They would assume the Gothas had been spotted. Room 40’s secrecy would be upheld.
Even so. When other squadrons that large had made their way across the Channel, their defenses hadn’t succeeded in blocking them all. A few always slipped through. And though their bombs hadn’t seemed to be aimed at specific targets, with detailed information like what Dieter Regnitz had provided, that would change.
Unless . . . unless the details could be changed. She gripped Drake’s arm, looking at the admiral. “We can send them a supposed correction, sir, as you’ve done before. Misinformation—an updated message with a new target.” For Drake’s benefit, she added, “We write a message in their code and send it, supposedly from Regnitz. We just need a decoy target. Something that won’t harm anyone.”
Hall gave her a small, tight smile. “The very solution I was going to recommend.”
Drake was still staring at the map. “An abandoned building. I know of a few near there. I can write out the directions as he did. You can turn it into code.”
“And while I’m doing that,” she said, squeezing his arm, “go and get your sister.”
“Keep your eyes peeled. He said he’d signal me to proceed after I drop the codebook, so he’ll be nearby.” Drake jammed Hall’s car into Park in a shadowy stretch of road.
Red jumped out of the opposite door, and Camden piled out of the back. They’d used the forty-minute drive toward Woolwich to try to guess at what Regnitz meant to do. To anticipate what would change when the bombs didn’t fall on their target. To determine how to find him and apprehend him.
Because he wouldn’t be at the factory—not unless he meant to die tonight. And somehow, Drake couldn’t imagine that was his goal. But he’d want to be close. Close enough to retrieve the codebook, yes, but he’d also want to see Drake walk into the factory. He’d want to see the building go up in flames. He’d want to make certain he didn’t escape.
They had decided to assume he’d be armed, possibly with a long-range rifle, hence why they all stuck to the shadows. Red, who had apparently done a fair bit of scouting in France before he’d been sent home minus a foot, took the lead, motioning them forward with hand signals.
For once, Camden had apparently decided to be civil. He’d simply ignored Red, rather than insulting him, while they drove. And now he fell in without any complaints, without any posturing. A soldier, when it came down to it.
At least for a few minutes. But then he stopped while Red was still advancing and grabbed him by the arm to halt him. Drake, bringing up the rear, halted too. “What is it?” he whispered.
“Planes.” Camden set his eyes on the heavens, scanning from horizon to horizon.
Red leaned close. “Ours or theirs? Can you tell?”
It took another moment for Drake to even make out the drone of the engines over the sounds of city life. Certainly he couldn’t discern whether they belonged to Camels or Gothas.
But if the curse he bit off was any indication, Camden could. And it was the wrong answer. “Hurry!”
Sirens blared. First from a distance, but that seemed to trigger others, and soon the night was filled with the angry warning sound. From somewhere far off, an unmistakable boom shattered the night still more. The antiaircraft guns, stationed around London.
Red took off at a run, and Drake and Camden followed. If the Gothas were here, it meant one of two things—either they hadn’t received Margot’s revisions to their plan in time and this factory would soon be targeted, or they’d soon be dropping their loads on the abandoned warehouse on the other side of the river, and Regnitz would realize he’d been foiled. Either way, they’d probably be safe from any sniping he might have planned right now . . . but not for long.
They stopped at the first of the two locations the agent had given them, where a metal rubbish bin slouched forlorn in the mouth of an alley. Into this Drake slid the false code. And then straightened, looking about, wondering what sort of signal Regnitz would offer.
He had his answer when a bullet bit off a chunk of brick a foot above his head. It had likely come from across the street, but he didn’t have time to investigate. He motioned Red and Camden onward.
No more bullets whizzed by them as they made their way, but the drone of the planes was growing louder now, and the sirens continued to scream. “It isn’t midnight yet!” Drake shouted as they gained the side door of the factory and, upon testing it, found it unlocked.
Convenient. And probably thanks to Dieter Regnitz, who wanted them to gain entrance.
Let Dot be here, Lord. Help us find her. Help us get her out. Only by your grace, Father.
“They must have caught a tailwind and made it across the Channel faster than anticipated—those that made it. Some would have dropped off, they always do.” Camden bent in half long enough to suck in a breath. “You definitely owe me now, Elton.”
Flying him to France and home in one day and then following him to a known bombing target? He’d owe him for the rest of his life. Lord, let it be long enough to repay him. “I’ll send you a tin of biscuits.”
“I see something, chaps. Over there.” Red indicated the corner of the factory floor.
Drake followed his finger to where a figure was slumped—too long to be Dot. Too wide to be Regnitz. “A guard?”
“I’ll see.” Movingly quickly, Red took off.
Drake surveyed the factory floor. This room had no machines, no equipment. Just enormous shells, lined up like rows of wheat, from this wall as far as he could see toward the opposite. Support beams stretched up to the ceiling every few yards, and walkways intersected each other in a grid.
Almost, nearly, like a game board. But where were the players?
Another boom sounded from outside. A whole series of them, along with an explosion of a different tenor.
“Bomb. Hurry.”
“Dot!” Stealth was no longer really going to prove helpful, so Drake took off down the nearest aisle at a run. Praying with every footfall that none of those bombs crashed through this ceiling. “Dorothea!”
“Dot!”
“Dotty!”
/> “Over here!” Not Red or Camden—Dot herself, from the far side of the cavernous chamber. “Hurry! He’s long gone!”
Drake sprinted down the aisle, dodging a beam, nearly tripping over one of the heavy howitzer shells. He reached her a few seconds after Red, a few before Camden. Red had already pulled her up and given her a quick, fierce embrace by the time Drake skidded to a halt, trying to take stock of her in the moonlight while Red went to work on the ropes at her wrist. Camden crouched down with his knife at the ready to take care of the rope at her ankles.
“Are you injured? Did he hurt you?” Drake gripped her by the shoulders and tilted her face toward the window.
She shook her head. An odd answer, given the spatters of blood he saw on her cheek. “Drugged me, but he didn’t hurt me. We have to hurry though. He’s injured, but he’s been gone for at least twenty minutes.”
Waiting for them. He’d have fetched the codebook by now and be on his way out of the neighborhood. “Injured? How?”
Dot’s smile was a wisp of a thing. Fragile. Yet victorious. “He thought I was still unconscious there at the end, and I let him. When he removed the gag to give me more laudanum, I kicked him in the shin and sent him sprawling into the shells.” She nodded to where a few were indeed knocked over, something dark smearing them. “He was bleeding. Coughing fiercely. And holding his hand. I think one of the shells must have caught it somehow. I expected him to come at me then, but he ran out instead.”
“He wasn’t going to risk being here.” And neither should they. Drake pressed a kiss to her forehead while Red worked through the last of her bonds and then gripped one of her newly freed hands. “We need to get out. Fast.” He looked to Red. “The bloke by the door?”
Red shook his head. “Shot in the head.”
Dot winced. “He tried to stop him. He had come to sooner than expected, I think.”
Drake pressed his lips together. But there was nothing they could do for that man. And still much to do about the one who’d done it. He led the way to the nearest door, knowing Dot would rather have Red’s arm around her, leading her out, than his. “Do you know where he went?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. But he had me somewhere near here earlier. I could just make out the roof of the factory from the window. There was empty space between us. Near the river, perhaps? He may have gone back there.”
Near the river. Across it? In the section that had already been hit by raids once and left largely abandoned?
The place he’d described when Margot had needed a decoy target.
They pushed their way out the door, into the screaming night, just as one of the Gothas banked overhead.
33
The idiots! Das Gespenst stumbled his way out of the building, coughing until he could barely stand. Smoke billowed out after him, stinging his eyes as it burned his lungs. What had gone wrong this time? Were their pilots so incompetent they didn’t know which side of the river to target? Did they not know right from left?
Or had he failed to convince the High Command he was useful? Were they trying—perhaps again—to eliminate him? How did they know where he’d be?
He tripped over something he couldn’t see through the smoke, fell against the lamppost, and loosed a growl of pain when he landed on his hand. That blighted howitzer shell had crushed it. He had made himself probe it and had counted at least five breaks.
But a broken hand would not kill him. He was still on his feet, still breathing, more or less. He pushed away and turned toward the Thames, waiting to see the flames roar up from the factory.
More Gothas appeared. One, two. Three. Enough to finish the job. Elton would be inside now, trying to free his clever little sister, who had played the innocent so very well. She deserved credit for that last stunt. And he ought to have anticipated it. It was something Ilse would have done.
Even if they got out, they wouldn’t get far enough. All those munitions would go up like the largest bomb in the land. There was no way they would escape its blast.
Except the Gothas were off course. They didn’t veer left, toward Woolwich. They veered right. Toward him.
Biting off a curse, he forced breath into his lungs and ran.
Margot pulled her coat tighter around her and wished her hat covered her ears. One thing to be said for the crisp December night, though—it woke her up. And after the last thirty hours, she needed the jolt it gave her.
But she couldn’t go home to her bed quite yet. That was impossible. She aimed herself instead toward Dot’s flat, where they’d agreed, as Drake rushed out, that they would reconvene. She had to know they were safe, all of them. She had to see it with her own eyes. She had to hear them say they’d apprehended Regnitz. Then, perhaps, she could sleep.
She knew that to the east, sirens were likely still blaring. But here, on the opposite end of London, all was quiet. She’d heard a few reports coming in over the wireless before she left the OB. Enough to know that the German raid was over and damage had been minimal.
That meant the munitions factory had been spared. In that at least, they’d won.
Dot and the rest would be back soon, then. Wouldn’t they? She had to believe they would be. She would believe it, cling to it.
The door to Dot’s building opened with its usual squeak, and the dim lights of the entryway greeted her. No one else would be about at this hour.
Except, apparently, for the man sitting on the steps. Looking shorter than he was, hunched over. With a gun at his side pointing straight at her.
Her breath caught, went still inside her, and for the briefest of moments she wondered, Why? Why didn’t you warn me, Lord?
But that wasn’t the right question. That wasn’t the question that led to life. That was the question that led to bitterness, to walls between her and her God.
She let the door fall shut behind her and met the eyes of Dieter Regnitz. And prayed He would give her the right question.
She didn’t know if she’d found it. But she could think of only one thing to say as she looked at his blackened hand. Heard the rasp of his breath. And saw his face, pale as a ghost. She eased a step forward and held out her hands to show she had no weapon. “Why did you alter the game?”
The game. She meant Go, he assumed. The pieces he had put where he needed them. Das Gespenst tried to lift the gun, but his hand shook if he didn’t keep his arm anchored to his body. And he wasn’t nearly skilled enough at shooting left-handed anyway. He wouldn’t be able to work the bolt to load another chamber—he’d have one shot, that was all. As he’d had one in the rifle he used to signal Elton. It had been enough then.
This would be enough now.
“It was necessary to prove my point. Do not move, Miss De Wilde. I will score at least one victory tonight—and this may in fact be the sweetest. It may not help the High Command to take out an Admiralty secretary, but it will provide my revenge. Elton loves you, does he not? It will hurt him more than death to lose you.”
Her eyes darted to the left, toward the landlord’s office. A ploy, no doubt, to distract him, so she could lunge. But he refused to take his eyes off her. Hands still held out, she dared to ease another step closer. “You’re ill. And injured. What happened?”
The itching in his chest made it nearly impossible not to cough, but he couldn’t give in to that. Not now. It was the smoke, or the pneumonia. But it wouldn’t win. He would win. That was what mattered. “Do not pretend you care.”
“Why do you assume I don’t?” She paused and lifted her brows. “I learned long ago that being on opposites sides of a war didn’t make a man my enemy. I don’t wish you harm. I just wish you stopped.”
No, she’d never been his enemy. Just his opponent. A clever one, deserving of respect. But cleverness wasn’t enough. And respect didn’t mean he could spare her. “You are out of moves. I told you that already. Aji keshi.”
The corners of her lips actually turned up in a smile. “You had to cheat to be able to say that. It isn’t
true victory.”
“It will have the same result.” He had to anchor the gun with his side to be able to cock it.
“No. It won’t.”
He pulled the trigger, but she was already moving. Lunging to the side. Not away, but toward him. As she’d done on the street, when she’d stolen Der Vampir from him. He tried to yell, but it turned into a cough that made his whole body convulse.
And then the gun wasn’t in his hand anymore and spots danced before his eyes, and instead of a knee finding his groin, an arm came around his shoulders.
“Would you get him water?”
He didn’t know of whom she asked it, and he couldn’t look up to see. The spasm kept his head down, his body curled forward into a useless mockery, his lungs on fire.
“Easy. Breathe, Dieter.”
She knew his name. How did she know his name? “I will win.” He could barely gasp it between spasms, but it had to be said. It had to be.
“You nearly did. And perhaps you could have outsmarted Drake. Outsmarted me—even though I’m not a secretary. But you cannot outsmart God.”
Was it He who had struck him down? No. It was the damp and the cold and lungs already weakened by pneumonia from his near drowning. It was too many nights waiting in the park for her to make a play at Go and traveling all over the city in search of targets. It was the uncompromising commands of his superiors and his own need to see to retribution above himself.
Would he die? Here, now, of this wracking cough, with his hand black with bruising and his opponent’s arm around him?
Had he thought he couldn’t die? Or that it wouldn’t matter if he did? Perhaps it didn’t. He had no one to mourn him, not like they would mourn Heinrich. He had never been the hero in the stories.
If only he’d won, his death wouldn’t have mattered. But he’d failed there too.
The hand patted his back, though it did nothing to help. “Drake didn’t mean to shoot your brother.”
The Number of Love Page 35